


...

by asheanex



Series: The Holmesian Shorts. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Sectioned Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:20:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asheanex/pseuds/asheanex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Welcome, back from the dead, the one, the only, Sherlock Holmes."</p>
<p> "Please stop laughing Mycroft, You are this close to being sedated and taken in for psychoanalysis."</p>
<p>"Where do you think you are?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	...

"Welcome, back from the dead, the one, the only, Sherlock Holmes." The words were spoken with a sharp tongue and a tone as dark as chocolate, despite the trio knowing that the speaker was more than able to speak like an angel. The corridor leading to the room where the remainder of Britain's government sat was suddenly saturated with raucous laughter, a low chuckle to a high pitched shriek which hurt John's ears.

"Please stop laughing Mycroft, You are this close to being sedated and taken in for psychoanalysis." Sherlock said crisply, shoulders back and chin up. The fluorescent lighting reflected off his eyes and gave them a strong and ethereal glow, unlike the man who sat behind the bars. Mycroft's eyes also reflected the light, but it hit his face at the wrong, and his eyes looked white. Like a demons. The pupil and iris were practically wiped from his sockets, and the smirk which had sent dictators toppling had congealed until it only served to terrify the viewer.

"Where do you think you are?" came the voice of sugary syrup and autumn breezes. It sent shivers down all of their spins. A high giggle slipped from beaming lips, and John was about to put his hands over his ears, before Mycroft froze, a rabbit in headlights.

Mycroft had quickly deteriorated after Sherlock's supposed death, his beautiful mind turning on him and condemning the most mentally tactile man in the world to be forced to live out his days in a "facility for the mentally challenged" - but it was obviously more a torture chamber. Mycroft's clothes, instead of his signature three piece suit, were thin white robes, not unlike a stereotypical monk in a monastery. They hung off of his frame limply, bony collar and sternum visible through thin freckled skin which had a slightest grey tinge to it.

'Sherlock can't throw any fat jokes anymore, at least...' John thought, mentally chastising himself for the joke in his head. This was not the time. 

"FUCK YOU! I HEAR YOU! FUCK YOU! I'LL HUNT YOU DOWN AND EAT YOU! YOU BASTARDS! I WILL SPEND MY LIFE CHASING YOU! YOU WON'T LAST A WEEK!" Screeched Mycroft suddenly, throwing himself at the door, both outsiders jumping backwards. Mycroft continued throwing profanities and spitting at them as Sherlock turned John around, returning back to the misleadingly pleasant reception with the sun streaming through windows.

"Why is he there? This place can't possibly be right!"

"This place was specifically built for him. He may be leave of his senses, but he still knows things which could impede the relationships between the world. Should he suddenly remember himself, it is easier to just keep him contained than chase him down."

John felt sick.

"You can't honestly agree with this, can you?" Sherlock's eyes flashed a brilliant blue.

"I would rather kill myself all over again, than see him come to harm." he said quietly, and strode out of the building and towards the rented car. John swallowed, and with a glance at the pleasant receptionist, John walked out to follow him.

.o0'O'0o.

Sherlock would wake the next morning to the news that his brother had killed himself, having pinched a key from the chain in a wardens pocket and drawing it across his throat. The young warden had been too shocked to do anything than watch the dark liquid stretch across the floor, as if it was a last attempt from it's owner to escape the prison his own mind had created.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just 'cose I need some Nutty Mycroft right now.


End file.
